


Damian Wayne's Sketchbook

by Nichomen



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichomen/pseuds/Nichomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the drawers of the easel, he found a pencil, markers, pastels, colors. His fingertips skimmed the wood of the pencil before deciding against it, taking a firm grasp of the marker instead.  He wasn’t much of an artist, but he did have a vision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damian Wayne's Sketchbook

**Author's Note:**

> Posted from a request on tumblr!

_I really shouldn’t be here_ was one string in the pool of thoughts that floated through Dick’s mind loitering in Damian’s room at the manor. But it was overcrowded with thoughts of the meticulous order of the bookshelves, tombstone-straight bed with sheets tucked in from apparent non-use, and the smell of whatever cleaner Alfred had been using throughout the house made stale from the state of darkness heavy curtains seemed to scatter through the room.

So instead of leaving (like he knew he should) and shutting the door behind him (like he really knew he should,) he stepped forward and forward until his hands reached to tug at the curtains, allowing the light to spill through and transform the stale aroma into warm cinnamon and sunshine that hit his skin in waves.

Even without the darkness, the room was still in pristine condition, but it did illuminate Dick to the signs of a real actual person living in the room. Trinkets from travel lining the top of the dresser, a little rectangular mp3 player sitting perfectly at the corner of the nightstand (one inch border to its right and bottom) with earphones wound up to the left. The scimitars hanging perfectly crisscrossed by the window for a personal touch.

But the most telling was the small book against the easel. Its cover was blank, black, and unrevealing, air trapped between pages, the crumple of dog-eared corners and loose leaf papers sticking out; it was like a little corner of disarray in a perfect room—and impossible not to pick it up. Dick turned the cover to come face to face with a blank page; obviously a diversion by the artist to persuade unwanted readers to move on. But he only smiled faintly, turning the page again to see scribbles of graphite on paper; plants recorded from around the manor, sometimes Bruce’s guests that came by, drawn from weird angles suggesting they hadn’t been aware of the artist at work.

They were small and cluttered drawings, thrown together from different hours and days of creation; raindrops and dreary shades of the sky blurring into a sunny garden scene; birds, birds, and more birds, the occasional bust of Alfred as he worked in the kitchen or elsewhere on the property. He only saw one drawing of Bruce, standing tall and straight backed—a happy, charming smile on his face. This was probably drawn at some Wayne event, judging by the suit, tie, and glass of Champaign. While the pencil drawings were impeccably done in gesture and detail, it was the splash of colors that caught Dick’s attention the most.

They were less accurate, more expressive; bordering grotesque caricatures. There was a pattern here: drawings of the Joker, Killer Croc, Bane, Batman, were all in bold and thick strokes of color from markers, pencils, and paints, while drawings part of Damian Wayne’s life were grayscale and monotone precision. There was only one image that took up a whole spread, page to page. From the top of a skyscraper was the beautiful bleed and swirl of orange into red and yellow, pink and purple, dotted by stars of white gouache reflected by the yellow shining windows of Gotham lives, swallowing the pitch black Gotham skyline. Little birds—no, bats—flew from the black city to purple skies.

He felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest. It was a view he grew up with—as Robin.

When Dick turned the page, after a few long hesitant minutes, he burst out into laughter at caricatures of Tim and Jason. They were…unflattering to say the least, Jason as some big drooling werewolf like creature and Tim as… what looked like Big Bird from Sesame Street, but as Red Robin. They were often drawn in battle (battles that got pretty graphic and maybe a little too depictive of some inner desire for bloodshed between the two, Dick would have to talk to Damian about this later,) that went into little Chihuahua-like drawings of Stephanie and a somewhat more elegant (yet slightly creepy) depiction of Cassandra and Babs. 

But when he turned the page once more, his eyes hit the stroke of blue against ink black and more sunset colors fading into starlight in the background, and his heart seemed to soar.

Instead of a grotesque twisting sneer, or the character in a battle of blood and tooth and nail, it was him, or Nightwing, laughing wild and happy and proud. It wasn’t perfect like the small drawings of everyday life he did around the manor; but it wasn’t the stuff of nightmares Damian seemed to fancy, either.

The only way he could describe it to himself, to take it in and explain, was the feeling of sweat and adrenaline and the wind through his hair; of flying and laughter and smiles. The warm glow of Gotham from sunset to sunrise and that intermixable time in between, the bold line of blue that soared across his chest representing the pure feeling of bliss and freedom—he felt happy and he felt tears bubble at that moment into his eyes, spilling onto the page. He gasped when they hit the blank page beside it, and laughed again for _crying_ from the overpowering feeling of pure _emotion_ , shutting the book and holding it to his chest. When he opened it to look again, the feeling was still the same.

He looked through the sketchbook once, then twice, and a couple more times over, falling in love with the same two pieces each time. It was on his fifth go-through when he realized a strange little detail; Damian had never once drawn himself.

Even in the brother’s battles, or beside Batman, he was never present. It was strange, considering his ego. Surely he had a sense of self? Or maybe he only wanted to draw the world from his eyes, as Robin or otherwise. Maybe the bloodied mangled corpses were images of his own actions against his “victims.” Maybe the laughing, snarling face of Joker was one he could see hanging above his own mangled body—Dick stopped himself. He didn’t want to over think it, or assume what Damian’s own intentions in his private thoughts were. Again, _he really shouldn’t be here_.

He turned again to the image of him, strong and bright against the sky; and smiled.

From the drawers of the easel, he found a pencil, markers, pastels, colors. His fingertips skimmed the wood of the pencil before deciding against it, taking a firm grasp of the marker instead. He wasn’t much of an artist, but he did have a vision.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Something was off about the stale scent of his room when he came in. Daylight was being eaten away by the fiery sky, and the cape and mask and badge would become his evening attire soon. He walked past his luxuries, straight towards the window, shutting the curtains decisively; odd to have Alfred cleaning his room again so soon. He turned to straighten his music player, and smooth the soft crinkle on his bed, but grimaced at the slipping scimitar on the wall, where it had been chipped at the exact spot where it would lay perfectly against its sister blade. It was a little imperfection that bothered him every day, but hadn’t yet bothered to remedy.

From the corner of his vision, however, was an unbalance that definitely could not go unnoticed. Where his sketchbook once sat perfectly at center on the easel had been moved somewhat to the far right; something he knew he hadn’t done himself. Alfred was never one to touch that section of the room so intimately without his knowledge; and almost by invisible force he was drawn to touch and hold the book for inspection. Some pages had been pressed at, uncreased, disturbed; where loose leafed drawings had once been carefully applied (or as carefully as possible,) they now hung on carelessly askew. A small nagging rage bit him in the back of his mind; he skimmed through, thumbing the pages in quiet fury, until one page erupted into his face as different.

It was the page that had been a drawing of Grayson, Grayson as Nightwing, drawn the morning after patrol when his former Batman had interrupted as the sun began to rise. It had been such a long night, even his father was starting to feel the weight of his Kevlar and cape—but there was Dick, soaring in, almost _weightless_ , windswept, full of life, and against the skyline he stood bolder than even the black city, the fading stars, and the twinkle of lights, as a bold stroke of blue. 

Damian had known it would haunt him if he didn’t get it on paper, just as all his other drawings would.

But beside it now, where there was once a blank page, were teardrops and shocking planes of yellow, green, red, and black, meeting at angles and round, unpracticed strokes; it was crude and awful, as if even a less articulate grade-schooler had done it. But when he saw it, he knew what it was.

It was him, happy and smiling, side by side with Grayson. The colors were scribbled vivid, bright and fresh without restraint, the black bold and daring. Behind him was the black sky, fading into royal blues and the pale, formless moon.

The colors of his form bled onto the previous page, into the drawing of Nightwing, as Nightwing’s did the same. They were connected, despite the crease of the page, though whether it was intentional on the artist’s part, Damian couldn’t be sure.

However, from the drawing, Damian realized something.

It was Robin that saw the colors so vividly in the black and white of Gotham.


End file.
